


Forget-Me-Not

by Yatzuaka



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: A bit of swearing, Alternate Universe - Noragami Fusion, F/M, Slight Mention of Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-02-16 06:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13048515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yatzuaka/pseuds/Yatzuaka
Summary: Loki is a beleaguered shrine god. Darcy is up shits creek and is desperate enough to call him.





	1. The Brain May Forget

Darcy is stuck in Keflavik, the airport in Reykjavik, Iceland. It's Christmas Eve. Not that she really cares about Christmas Eve, being Jewish, but everyone else on this godforsaken island seems to.

The airline people are all very nice, very sympathetic, have offered to shuttle her to a hotel, where she could enjoy a traditional Icelandic Christmas Eve dinner. Darcy declines, for a number of reasons, mostly on the farfetched hope that she'd be able to leave soon, and not at all that fermented shark blubber scares her half to death.

The problem, of course, is that her hopes mean absolutely jackshit in the face of "heavier snowfall than anticipated" and "a shortage of personnel available to clear the runway." And so she's stuck. Staring out one of the big windows at a blackness that is interrupted only by fat, fluffy flakes falling deceptively slowly from the dark sky. The night looms cold and practically endless. Her bladder protests the coffees she's been drinking trying to keep awake and occupied, and she goes off in search of a bathroom.

The desperate need to get home - quickly, as soon as possible, preferably now - doesn't abate while she sits on the toilet, and perhaps that's why she spots the scribble; a series of numbers followed by writing in a language she assumes is Icelandic. As her gaze lingers, the letters seem to shift so slowly, so subtly that when she can finally make out the words, she assumes that she had been mistaken initially. 

**(555) 867 5309**

**_Desperate? Loki can help!_ **

It's probably a joke. Meaningless graffiti, undoubtedly put there by a bored tourist on their way home, but the thing is - she  _is_  desperate. Darcy's phone is in her hand before she even realizes that she pulled it out, her fingers sliding with the ease of familiarity across the screen.

* * *

A long time ago, people were much more respectful. They might not have known that the earth was round, but they knew how to properly worship a god.

Before, he could have simply stayed in his shrine, cozy and snug, while his followers attended faithfully to his whims and needs. Even as he longed for the good old days, he supposed he was somewhat lucky he was still known, after all. Even if people didn't really believe - still having a physical form was very nice indeed. The need to cater to every simple, ungrateful mortal who mewled for help, but conveniently forgot to read his complementary scripture and hymns for the privilege - decidedly less so. 

Loki sighed, stretching his long legs out in front of him as he contemplated how he would ever be able to save enough money to build a new shrine. Sure he could stay here, in an airport built on top of what had once been his place of worship, but ugh - he had to share it with all sorts of  _people_ , and that was not ideal. For anyone involved really, considering he was a chaos god. Well, a reformed one, anyway.

He usually did brisk business on Christmas Eve, but things were strangely quiet.

Where were the mothers-in-law desperate to fuck with their daughters-in-law hosting their first family gatherings? The daughters who needed an inappropriate date? The pagans who got drunk and accidentally summoned him?

He was (mostly) happy to lend them all a hand, so long as he got paid. He really wished he had set his prices higher, back in the day, but in his defense, who knew paper money would be a thing at all? (Don't even get him started on credit and debit cards.)

He rattled his bag of change, amazed how quickly it disappeared. Buying a beer these days practically bankrupted him. At this rate he'd be stuck in the airport forever. Money, he'd learned, was a huge pain in his ass. 

* * *

_She was calling a number she'd found in a bathroom stall._ Her life was officially in the shitter.  

As she looks around at the immaculate walls and tile floor, Darcy decides it's far too clean for it to be  _rock bottom_. Middle bottom, maybe. She just... really needs to do something, anything. Having the situation so entirely out of her hands is unsettling, to say the least.

A voice, a deep baritone and bordering on annoyed, said "Hallo?" from her phone. She gets the impression that it's not the first greeting. She stares at her phone.

 _Oh right_. Calling a number on a bathroom stall, Darcy reminds herself. 

* * *

The third time he'd said hello, he'd started to get peevish. Was it any wonder, really? Such disrespectful behavior... 

"Uhm, hi? I, uh, found your number in a bathroom? I am stuc-"

He knew exactly what bathroom this latest customer was calling from. The acoustics for each bathroom he'd left his number in were completely singular. He transferred himself to the bathroom in question, reasoning that communication is easier face-to-face. If he hadn't been somewhat distracted, he might've realized how inappropriate his sudden appearance is.

But he is, and it's unlikely that he would've cared in the first place.

A high pitched screech greets him as soon as he has shifted to a physical, visible spectrum; a young woman sitting on a toilet, what he assumes is her bags strewn around the floor below the sink he's found himself atop. He poses, as much as one whose head brushes the ceiling is able. First impressions count for these short-lived mortals.

At her apparent distress, Loki raises a hand, "Sorry, slight miscalculation," and shifts to the other side of the door. 

He hears shocked profanity from the other side of the flimsy partition, but doesn't concern himself overmuch with it. "So what  _is_  your problem?" he asks, eager to get on with it. 

"A strange guy showing up in my bathroom!" she answers quickly, indignantly.

"Well, you called before I showed up about something else," he responds, and he can hear how petulant he sounds. It's not especially godly, does nothing to inspire any sort of devotion, so he rallies, "Loki, reformed God of Chaos, at your service." He'd usually bow, but she's still locked inside the stall, so he doesn't bother. 

Fabric rustles on the other side of the pressboard, and shadows move underfoot as she gets up and moves around. Her feet, clad in scuffed black boots appear, and he can hear her sigh in the manner that means she'd do anything to get her way, including speak to him. He doesn't want her soul or anything - for one thing, it's messy business keeping a soul around, and for another it attracts the wrong sort of attention - he really just wants her money, and, hopefully, her prayers. 

"My grandmother is dying. I need to get to New York," the girl says. 

Loki is nothing if not a sucker for a sad story.

* * *

Darcy doesn't remember the flight home. She doesn't remember anything but being, suddenly, in the hospital, holding her Nan's hand. It's the day after the funeral, and she's finally got a moment to herself to unpack. The problem was that she only finds her purse and carry-on bag. She spends a few hours tracking down her suitcase, finally, inconveniently, getting an answer (which had been listed as being abandoned in Newark) while she's sitting on the toilet.

A business card falls out of her purse as she digs for her extra charger, and at the sight of that unassuming white rectangle of thick paper with bold, black letters, she remembers. 

**_Loki_ **

**_Reformed God of Chaos_ **

**_Helping People for Pocket Change_ **

**_(please check out his website for a complete guide to his scripture!)_ **

Her memories seem unreal, like a fever dream, and Darcy makes the arrangements to pick up the rest of her luggage on autopilot. Her fingers tremble as she dials the number in the business card, more than halfway convinced that she's completely insane.

"Darcy!" a voice answers, and with it, the half-formed recollections of calling a number from a bathroom stall are suddenly _fully_ formed.

"Loki," she says, completely and utterly sure that magic exists. Also, since there was nothing in her life that had prepared her for anything like this, she proceeds to hyperventilate a little.

* * *

It had been so long since he'd had a repeat customer that he may have been a little bit enthusiastic about it. Plus the whole God thing sometimes made his concept of boundaries a bit blurry. 

If nothing else, after the taser incident he would never again show up unexpectedly in a woman's bathroom.

* * *

It had been years since she first met Loki. It was weird, she didn't _need_ him for anything, and he'd never really disappear because of how much was written about him. He didn't need her to keep vigil over his memory, but... It had to suck, knowing that everyone basically forgot he really existed within hours of meeting him. 

She had a soft spot for him. He'd done something nobody else could have done. He'd given her time with her grandmother. 

And y'know, bullied her into finishing college and applying for law school.

He may or may not have caused a minor roof collapse that winter she'd had walking pneumonia and the tenured professor refused to reschedule the exam. The wing it had been scheduled in had been old and structurally unsound anyway, so who's to say how much influence a reformed chaos god really exerted for her benefit? And yes, she is very aware that Denial is not just a river in Egypt, thank you very much. 

Maybe she's still single, but she's a lawyer; a litigious warrior fighting for the rights of the little guy! Funny story: being a mutant rights lawyer was bad for her financial and physical health. And, incidentally, was also not great for dating in general. Also not great for her dating life was the fact that Loki was exactly the sort of dickhead who took great pleasure in critiquing the people she wanted to make out with, and generally had the bad taste of being perfectly right about them in the first place. Vexing, vexing man, God, whatever he was. 

So, bored and lonely, she calls him, as she is wont to do in situations like that. And of course, he obliges her, because that's what he does when he's similarly affected. It should have been strange, but they're friends. Somehow it feels right to sit with him on her couch, watching Netflix and bickering over how foul her taste in beer is. He doesn't technically need to eat or drink, but he really enjoys doing both, and she ends up buying the snacks he likes without thinking about why she does. 

Loki's grinning at her, having caught a (disgusting) licorice jellybean in his mouth after she'd tossed it at him. It wasn't a special moment; it was just them hanging out after a long week while she was wearing ratty sweatpants and a t-shirt too stained to be seen out in public. But suddenly, she realized exactly why it didn't bother her more that none of her romantic entanglements became more permanent: she was already in love. Stupidly, head over heels, warts and all in love with Loki. 

It was something of a terrifying revelation to have while he was sitting next to her, grinning maniacally at her through licorice blackened teeth. The thing was that Loki is  _Loki_  and is deceptively, annoyingly perceptive and he notices that she's having a Moment. Because he knows her, and she tries not to think more about how well he actually does, or how much it means that someone _knows her_.

"What's wrong?" he asks, eyebrows crinkling in concern. 

Her lips screw up in an attempt to keep her affliction a secret, but his kind green eyes, warm and familiar, are weapons he wields as effectively as any sword. She blurts it out, as good as reaching into her chest and plopping her heart on the coffee table to be squashed. 

"I love you." 

She doesn't hedge with a "think"; he'd know she was lying. 

Since she hadn't exactly been honest with herself, she hadn't fantasized about this scenario, but she didn't expect that he would poof away on her. Which he did. Immediately.

Squish goes her heart.


	2. But The Heart Will Remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to finish this before the new year, and then before Valentine's day, and certainly before the Ides of March, but you know what they say about the best laid plans. 
> 
> Either way, it's done and has actually been lingering around because I couldn't make myself post it. Though it's a less funny than I wanted it to be and probably riddled with both typos and grammar weirdness, I'm hoping you still enjoy it.  
> To paraphrase something Wil Wheaton said about writing: It could've been great, if only I changed everything :/

Outside of an ugly brick apartment building, Loki stands in the shadows, panting. He's disconcerted enough that he can't quite manage to pick a visible spectrum; he flickers into shadow every few seconds until he clenches his hands into fists, blunt nails digging into his palms, and concentrates _very hard_ on being unnoticed.

It hadn't really occurred to him that he could put a name to that feeling she inspires, much less that she would return it. That it would be _love_. Love is dangerous. Loki wants less to do with love than he does  _souls_. Prayers, worship, even devotion are worlds different - they are his natural due. Love is a horse of another color. A color he'd assumed didn't suit him, rather like puce or mauve. 

Loki has had people proclaim their love of him before. Nothing good or decent ever came of it. Granted, it hadn't been anytime in recent, or indeed, distant memory, but he'd been quite popular with a certain sort of person, _oh_ , about a thousand years ago. Of course, _those_ people hadn't been the generally good and kind person Darcy is.

There had been entire ceremonies, and the occasional sacrifice, dedicated to convincing him of _love_ , always in exchange for favors. Favors which had inevitably turned out to be horrible, terrible, awful, stomach-turning stuff. Not that he had a stomach, per se, more a direct link to a cosmic void, but the point still had merit even with that in mind.

He'd rather volunteer to scrub a billion toilets, _he would rather fade into obscurity_ than be manipulated into performing atrocities like a hapless circus animal at the end of a ringmasters whip. Hence  _reformed_  Chaos God. 

Though it's not her fault, and she is _nothing_ like _those_ people, Loki cannot help but think in some small, dark corner in his mind that she, too, could only profess something so unnatural out of some desperate, selfish desire. Certainly not for his own sake. People either forgot him, or they had figured out how to use him.

Not Darcy, though. She'd only ever asked for one small thing, and she'd paid her dues, fair and square. Everything else that he'd done for her, he realizes with a dawning sort of horror, he's done entirely of his own volition.

 _Darcy_.

After all those long, lonely nights alone, she is the only one who has stayed. Voluntarily. The only one who has cared enough to actually get to know him. Voluntarily.

_Darcy loves him._

And he had hurt her. Bungled matters so completely, she was likely even now burning his spare tracksuit. Like the rudest, most callous of cads, he had fled the one time he should have stood firm. (Maybe it was for the best that he left now, before she was _truly_ hurt. Before he did something irreparable.)

Loki walks away, head hanging low as he contemplates the pure cowardice he'd just displayed. He has long practice with wallowing in self-pity, and he likes to think he excels at it.

 _Love_ , he thinks, disgusted with everything that has occurred in the last ten or so minutes, is just as bad as he's always assumed. 

* * *

Darcy sits there, on her couch, wondering where her life went so wrong. It'd be easy to say Reykjavik, but the truth is that her life had been spiraling down well before then, and it had gotten better afterward. More's the pity, because at the moment she would really just adore the ability to blame Loki for all her life's ills.

 _Well, at least there's beer,_ Darcy thinks dully. A _lovely_ Smoked Pumpkin Spice microbrew from Brooklyn Loki had made fun of her for purchasing. He'd taken one sip and gagged theatrically, which, honestly had made buying it worthwhile. She did so enjoy tweaking his delicate sensibilities. _Had_ enjoyed, at least. 

Trying desperately not to cry, Darcy continues her contemplation of how she could have let this happen. Loki was a literal God, a being of immense power who... liked to camp out on her couch and eat all her food, who sometimes brought tampons to her office when she'd run out and occasionally would demolish buildings to make her life easier.

No one else saw - or maybe it was because no one else remembered to care - how much it bothered him that he had to keep reintroducing himself to Vaughn, the Security person at her office, or to her nosy neighbor, Ari. But she noticed, and maybe, subconsciously, she had hoped it would mean something to him that she wouldn't forget him. Could never forget him.

She attempts another tentative sip her rapidly warming beer, staring blankly as the credits run out on whatever they'd been watching on Netflix roll over into a new episode. The worst part of her night, she decides, as tears finally roll down her cheeks, is the beer. It's second only to that stunningly gruesome number she'd done to her own aching chest cavity. The beer really is egregiously unpalatable.

* * *

It's been months and she hasn't called him. She hasn't texted him. It's almost as if his callow behavior had finally caught up to him, but surely that was hardly the case. A reason beyond his pigheadness existed, even if it was only in his mind.

Unlike their other cultural differences, it didn't seem as if Darcy would be making a reconciliation easy on him.

Loki would never admit it, but her absence in his life was killing him slowly. It was like he was losing bits of her by increments so miniscule he didn't even think to miss them before they were gone. It wasn't just because he suddenly found himself without a place to squat regularly that he was upset, it was that he could practically _feel_ each grain of time as it slid through the hourglass, and it felt wasteful considering he knew how finite the meager amount she had was. 

Darcy Lewis had become, through means he was still uncertain about, the most important thing to him. Her continued absence was starting to fill him with an old, familiar fear; What if she forgot him? (What if that was for the best?) He needed advice about how to proceed, and while he had mended a few of the fences he shared with his brother (adopted), he had little faith that Thor would have other solutions than plowing Darcy like a field. Which was enticing, but it also seemed unlikely to solve anything at all.  

He hadn't precisely meant to seek out Ororo, (Rider of Wind, Goddess of the Plains, or _Storm_ as she liked to be called these days - a name that was short and certainly to the point, _snappy_ , though it lacked a bit of poetry, in Loki's pointedly unvoiced opinion - some people just didn't appreciate his spectacular advice on branding) it just sort of happened. 

Loki finds her lounging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, drinking strictly prohibited coffee and surveying the mortals as they seek meaning in the scribbles and sculptures displayed, and he wonders if he isn't making a huge mistake asking her for an opinion. The God in question snorts at his query, those pale eyes of hers gleaming with barely repressed mirth after he'd explained the situation.

"It's only a little love, Godling. Enjoy it while it lasts! There's nothing better for the complexion than true mortal love," she says as lifts her cup of coffee up as if in congratulation. 

It's strange how many gods congregated in New York, and awful how they all seem to know how few shrines he still has (zero - he has no shrines. His last remaining shrine was razed to put up an airport). _Godling_. Loki can't quite contain he reaction; a clutching of his hands, a narrowing of his eyes, offended to his core. He was thousands of years old, he'd been a God of Chaos, of Lies, Mischief, Mayhem and Outlandish Possibilities! ...and he was outclassed by a God much younger than himself, he realizes to his dismay. How many shrines did she have? Dozens upon dozens! One would think with that sort of bounty she could be charitable, but -

A smell wafts out of Storm, and it is like a recollection of being caught in the rain after a long drought, a sense memory of ozone and electricity. All of the hair on his body stands abruptly at attention and Loki's fairly glad that he decided to be invisible that day. He pulls out the last of his hair gel, and spends several minutes restoring order to his coiffure while watching the patrons of the museum swing their heads around in confusion, looking for an explanation as to why they were suddenly statically charged.

The God herself leans closer to Loki, and the sensation is nothing so much as being measured and weighed. A long moment passes as she adjusts herself so that she sits cross-legged. The air itself feels heavy and judgmental, and Loki knows she will say something he won't like.

"I am not Heaven. I am not an Oracle, or a sage, or some sort of fortune teller to spit wisdom and answers to a dull creature, a puny god who lacks the basic intelligence to know when he's been fortunate enough to receive that which he's been searching for all along."

"Dull creature?" Loki croaks, any semblance of hauteur snuffed out in an instant.

"Dimwit, ignoramus, idiot, moron," Storm recites definitions sing-song and with great relish, before she concludes with a pointed, " _You_."

Loki isn't sure how he ended up here, but her mockery wasn't to be borne. As he wound himself up to deliver what was sure to be stunning set-down, his phone rang. He could tell by the ring tone that it wasn't Darcy, and just as he readied the words which would certainly set the other God firmly in her place, Storm says clearly, and rather smugly, "I'll give you this much for free. You should probably take that."

Aggravation barely describes the swell of emotion he feels by the interruption, but he answers the call with a curt, "Yes."

It turns out to be a young mother whose cat has gone missing, leaving her son inconsolable. Out of options, she's called a number she found on the subway, hoping against hope for a miracle. Loki's about to respond that he is busy, and he certainly will be - giving Storm a piece of his mind might take at least a few days - but she has rudely disappeared.

Loki accepts the pitiful job, but waves both of his middle fingers around wildly, just in case Storm is still there to notice. He's rewarded, such as it were, with a hint of soft, but derisive laughter as he leaves. 

The coins in his pocket, the ones he's taken in exchange for finding a wayward feline, jingle in the pocket of his sweatpants as he stalks an unfamiliar neighborhood. It's not exactly how he'd envisioned himself when he'd hastily and thoughtlessly moved to New York in search of greener pastures, but nonetheless, there he is, crawling around on all fours to peer under parked cars and opening dumpsters while calling, "Here kitty, kitty! Milord! Someone special misses you!"

It is undignified. 

As the day wears on, Loki begins to doubt that the cat wants to be found, and is also cursing the creature for being a recalcitrant little shit. The thing about cats is that they don't give a crap about Gods or mortals, and mostly exist outside either's purview, and were thus outside the natural order of things. The creatures were half chaos and all entitlement, much like Loki himself was, which in this case, meant that cats could ignore Loki's powers of persuasion quite easily. He really shouldn't have bothered with this job, but boredom and desperation led to many a strange and ignoble choice.

Around the time he'd been rummaging through a mountain of trash bags, something a colony of unfriendly rats took offense to, Loki decides he's had just about enough. He could have found something else to do, surely. Something _godly_. He's contemplating offering an unheard of refund when he hears it, a squeaky meow that he _knows_ is his target. 

Following the sound, he sees the stumpy tail of his target disappear into a crowded street. Cars and buses and bikes and oddly fearless pedestrians fight for dominance, and now that he's found the creature Loki is loathe to lose it to something as mundane as a traffic accident. He darts into the street with the fearlessness of someone who doesn't really have to worry about little things like broken bones and traumatic brain injuries. His hands close around the squishy, fluffy middle of the cat he hears a screeching noise and before he can put together what is happening, is shoved - rather rudely, actually - out of the path of a oncoming bus. 

The cat is all claws and teeth wrapped in animosity, and Loki barely has time to feel the slightest bit of accomplishment before the sequence of events dawns on him. 

Darcy - his dear, mostly sweet Darcy -  lays on the dirty asphalt in front of the bus he'd almost made intimate acquaintance with. She'd saved him. Had she even realized that it had been him? Would it have mattered one way or another? 

A thousand years and he'd barely felt more than a passing concern for anyone save himself. At that moment, seeing Darcy limp and bloody, terror only begins to describe how he feels.

* * *

It's a frantic, horrible feeling, this waiting. Loki had heard the doctors say that she would be fine, had watched as they carefully put four small stitches to close the gash on her forehead. Darcy hadn't woken up, though, and her stillness, her continued silence unsettles him.

Darcy shifts in her sleep, but something isn't quite right. He stares at her, trying - unsuccessfully - to put his finger on what exactly he thought he'd noticed. Maybe it's because he knows he should leave her now, because he's meddled enough in her life and nothing good was likely to come of that. He loves her, though, he loves her and there's nothing quite like love for the complexion, or so he's been told.

He sits there by her side as time runs on and on, waiting for her to open her eyes, for her to wake up so he can tell her this marvelous and horrifying thing he's discovered he shares with her. 

When the magical moment happens, and her eyes flutter open, crystal blue and familiar, he's shocked that it's her spirit that sits up, rather than her physical body. That was what he'd noticed earlier - the disconnect between the two. His elation is tempered by guilt, but he can't help that his smile is so wide that feels like it could split his face in half. 

She'll be ok, he will do everything he can to make sure of it. Everything else can get stuffed as long as -

"You utter douche-canoe!" Darcy's spirit yells. 

Loki doesn't hesitate this time, hurrying to get the words out before another disaster falls, (he's _Loki_ , disaster is always nibbling at his heels,) "I love you."

Her expression is priceless shock, and her spirit form wavers and is gone in an instant. Her body coughs, and this time it is the one sitting up, staring at the nearly invisible shadow he makes in the corner. "You could have just said that to begin with, and spared us all the drama!"

* * *

Darcy Lewis is not completely mortal anymore. She has a spirit form with a weird tail and tends to fall out of her physical form at random times. It's not exactly convenient and also not something she can just tell people. It's easier to say that the accident left her with a sort of narcolepsy.

It's not what she expected, but she's happy with her life, strange as it is, filled with invisible Gods and disembodied souls. 

There's a crude little shrine made of glue and popsicle sticks on her counter, with runes she carefully researched and scratched into the wood. Her hands were a wreck; cut to heck and blistered from hot glue. Darcy Lewis was a lot of things, but she apparently not was not crafty (er, a crafter, because she sort of was crafty, or so she liked to think).

Inside, there's more scratches, a small heart outlining D+L. She's certain that this time, when she gives Loki her heart, he definitely won't squish it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ororo has been coming across my dash a lot lately, and I read up on her in the lead up to Black Panther. (She's recently divorced T'Challa in the comics.) Needless to say, she's been on my mind, and she kinda showed up?
> 
> Much gratitude to everyone who commented and kudo'd, and many thanks for reading. 
> 
> Life's been pretty crappy lately, but your many kindnesses have been a balm to my weary, depressed soul. 
> 
> Xo


End file.
